


Tiger, Tiger

by Defiler_Wyrm



Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Anal Sex, Biting, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Cannibalism, Cannibalistic Thoughts, Creepy Brock Rumlow, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dehumanization, HYDRA Trash Compactor Challenge, HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, No Actual Cannibalism Occurs, Non-Consensual Oral Sex, Oral Sex, POV Brock Rumlow, POV Bucky Barnes, Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Predator/Prey, Rape/Non-con Elements, Vore, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 17:30:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17268374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Defiler_Wyrm/pseuds/Defiler_Wyrm
Summary: tolarian 9:50 PMRumlow has a fantasy he hates of being eaten by the WSbut it's the hottest thing he can think ofsneakend 9:51 PMOoh a vore kinkI'd read that a thousand times





	Tiger, Tiger

Rumlow has a new problem. Call it intrusive thoughts, call it daydreaming turned fixation, whatever. It's becoming a  _thing_ , he just knows it.

The  _thing_ is, you can only watch the Winter Soldier in action so many times before you really start admiring its deadly grace, the same way you'd watch in awe as a big cat took down prey. The Asset is a weapon, and it is dangerous. And danger, all of STRIKE knows intimately well, is pretty goddamn thrilling.

He dreams of the Asset's dance of death: all furious limbs in black leather and steel. He dreams of it hunting him instead of hunting  _for_ him. He dreams of the muzzle coming off to reveal sharp teeth that sink into his flesh until they meet.

He dreams of the Fist of Hydra  _eating him_ and wakes up raging hard.

It's all downhill from there. He's got the Asset on its knees with its soft lips slack for him. He tangles his fingers in its hair as he fucks the wet heat of its mouth. It looks up and meets his eyes and he can see the predator there, the hunger and hate, and gods he can _feel_ how thin the chain of obedience is that allows him to take such liberties, and he thinks—he sees the Asset biting down in his mind's eye, sucking blood from severed flesh before bolting it down like a fucking crocodile.

He comes far sooner than he'd thought he would.

He pushes his luck. That very night he pushes the Asset down onto its back. Rumlow finds himself curled over this savage, dangerous body, hands all over its deadly muscles and metal parts. It's watching him the whole time. He's got its wrists in his hands over its head but it could break that grip without even trying if it—not _wanted_ to, surely it _wants_ to now, but if it believed it _could._ That learned helplessness is like a nylon collar around a lion's neck and he's holding the leash. And Rumlow—he's delirious with it, and he's got to push his luck just a little bit more.

He tells it to bite him. It squints, suspicious; this goes against its programming. But it's a direct order. He gives the order again, squeezing its wrists in a way that would be a threat to anyone who was...human. This isn't a man. This is a beast sweating and hitching beneath him, a monster. It understands the warning even through Rumlow poses no tangible threat. Not like that, anyway. He's hurting it with every roll of his hips but _ha_ , his grip is just a symbol. But he tells it again to bite him, and with the fear and care of a soft-mouthed hound, it sets its teeth against the meat of his shoulder as he takes it harder still.

"Higher," he tells it. Its mouth moves up to his neck and "Harder _,"_ he tells it. Its teeth clamp down and "Yes," he tells it, and imagines it tearing his throat out and lapping up the shower of gore, tearing and tearing until Rumlow stops thrashing, until he stops twitching, then rolls him over to crouch over _Rumlow_ instead and feast on him, a tiger lording over its kill, blood smearing bright red stripes across white and bruising black—and he tenses, and he comes hard enough to go blind for an actual fucking moment, and comes to feeling like his damn balls are as dry as a new sponge.

He pushes its face away so he can lick its pallid neck and force a kiss against lips he half-wishes were wet with blood.

 

-oOo-

 

The Commander has been giving him Looks. (In his thoughts, he is _he,_ though he couldn't say why and he knows it has to remain a secret—dearly-held, closely-guarded, a tiny thing he should not have.) It's not uncommon to see lust in the eyes of those with any measure of authority over him, and he knows to watch for it so he won't be caught off-guard when they act on that lust. But something's different lately. There's something in the Commander's eyes that speaks of _prey_ as much as _want_ and that is confusing, and confusing isn't good. He treads carefully. He watches closer still.

He's been well-trained to spot weakness and exploit it, but there's an invisible rope around his neck when it comes to higher-ups. He must open his mouth and mind his teeth. He must open his legs and mind his strength. This new look, this prey-fear-want, pings like a desperate beacon to his instinct to _huntchasekill_ and he must not act on it. When he meets Rumlow's eyes from his knees and sees his pupils dilate and sweat bead on his brow, it feels, for just a moment, like he's the one looming over the Commander and not the other way around. He must not act on it.

The Commander is hurting him. It's a negligible pain. More discomfort than anything, worth little more than a wince when it starts and when the tempo jumps. Then he's given a command: _Bite me._ A direct order. This...this is a trick. A test. His masters try to trick him often, test him daily. There is a right and a wrong answer. Sometimes there are only wrong answers. He must not act on _bitecrushkill._

But the order comes again, and the man's feeble human hands squeeze his wrists in a grip that would make a man's bones grind together—but the Asset is no man. He lets the Commander rock him against the floor and parts his lips, runs a tentative tongue across his own teeth and lips the same way he'd test the safety of a gun. _Bite,_ he's ordered, and he must not harm but he must obey so he opens wide and _mind the teeth_ sets his mouth against sweat-dewed skin.

 _Higher. Harder._ He latches onto Rumlow's neck the way a tiger takes a deer and bears down, and there are sirens blaring in his head _he must not harm_ but _bitecrushkill_ and he's biting harder, hard enough to make the man above (inside) him groan out loud like a dying thing. And he is afraid, and his heart is hammering in his chest, and there's a savage thing inside it that knows he could keep going _harder_ and this man would die here buried in his flesh. Instead he's pushed down harder, frantic, and filled, and filled, and filled.

Rumlow's still heaving for air when he curls a hand under the Asset's jaw and pulls him away. _Release,_ he doesn't have to be told in words.

There's something Wrong about the way the Commander looks at him. He may not know what triggered this change, but he knows fear when he sees it; and though he must not act on it, he will remember, and he will watch.

**Author's Note:**

> I cannot fucking believe my first fic of 2019 is also my first use of the vore tag


End file.
